


Broadcast News (the Marionette Mix)

by flyingcarpet



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Forced Prostitution, Gen, M/M, Remix, The Revolution Will Be Televised
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 10:44:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4176882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingcarpet/pseuds/flyingcarpet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caesar watches the Hunger Games, becomes a part of the production, and eventually learns to see beyond the spectacle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broadcast News (the Marionette Mix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SRoni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SRoni/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Even Puppets Cry](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/122256) by SRoni. 



> Thanks to M for beta-reading.

Caesar loved watching the Opening Ceremonies as a child. Stretched out on the thick carpet, he propped his head in his hands, staring fixedly at the screen. He didn't want to miss a single second of the beautiful boys and girls from each outlying district, their costumes, the glittering scenery. The best part was the interviews, Caesar thought, though most people preferred the parade. When the commentators smiled for the camera just so, and the lights reflected brilliantly off their teeth and the audience laughed, everything was beautiful and nothing hurt. 

After the parade and the interviews, Caesar shuffled off to bed clutching his favorite stuffed dog under one arm. His parents would be up for hours watching the Games unfold, but he slipped off to sleep filled with the lingering glow of those studio lights.

* * *

When he was seven, he was finally old enough to stay up late and watch the Hunger Games. He'd been begging for two years, and finally -- finally! -- he was allowed to watch.

The memory was forever seared into his mind, as clear as it had been on the giant screen in his parents' living room. He knew every statistic of every tribute, every fact and test score and fashion choice. A glossy picture of the handsome dark-haired boy from District 3 was taped to the wall beside his bed. Sometimes at night, Caesar would imagine the boy was smiling right at him.

The twenty-four tributes perched upon their podiums in a dry, desert wasteland as the announcer's voice counted down. Caesar quivered with excitement, unable to sit still.

"Four." A giant number flashed over the screen in red, as the camera panned across the faces of the tributes, noble and determined. "Three." A few of the weaker tributes looked scared, and one was even crying. "Two." Caesar frowned. Why was she crying? "One." He supposed that losing would bring shame to her district. But did the outlying areas even care about--

Before his mind could complete the thought, a giant buzzer blared across the screen, and the tributes leaped from their perches. They ran through the golden dunes toward the giant cornucopia, kicking up great plumes of sand as they went. Caesar's heart thrilled to see his favorite reach the pile of supplies quickly, the hot desert sun gleaming off his perfectly toned muscles.

Then the boy reached out an arm and grabbed a sword. He pivoted on one foot, lifting the sword high with both hands and plunging it deeply into the chest of the girl from Eight. Bright red blood spilled across the sand as Caesar's favorite struggled to pull the sword free. 

Caesar felt his stomach twist in revolt, and sat up quickly with both hands pressed to his mouth. Onscreen, a spear came flying through the air and buried itself in the handsome boy's throat and he collapsed beside his victim, the handle of the sword still clutched in his hands. 

"What--" Caesar said, unable to tear his eyes away from the screen. _What happens to the ones who don't win?_ he wanted to ask, but the answer was obvious. 

His father only patted him absently on the head, his eyes still glued to the screen. "Don't worry about the Districts," he said. "It's all a part of their punishment." 

"They deserve it," his mother agreed, a hard edge in her voice. Caesar lapsed into silence, remembering that his grandfather, his mother's father, had been killed in the rebellion. 

Still, a part of him protested as the bloodbath continued onscreen. One of the tributes was only four years older than him, the same age as his older sister. The awful lump in his stomach did not subside.

* * *

"The Hunger Games are an abomination!" Julian Entwhistle declared in the midst of history class years later, interrupting their lesson on the first Games. "We are nothing but murderers, killing the tributes for sport while we cheer them on."

Sure, Caesar and Julian had talked about the Games in hushed tones out behind the exercise pavilion. Caesar had even said quietly, "I just don't see how this prevents another uprising. These people didn't do anything, it was their ancestors. We're punishing them for a crime they never committed." But that was in private. Not like this. Not in front of people who would turn them in.

The teacher's fist slammed against Julian's desk with a loud crack. "Watch yourself, Mr. Entwhistle, unless you'd like a visit to the Disciplinary Complex. The Districts agreed to the treaty of--"

"Those children never signed a treaty," Julian insisted, his voice only getting louder. "They never rebelled against the Capitol. Continuing the punishment is barbaric, no better than the criminals--"

The screen at the front of the class still showed a giant map of the Capitol's final victory as Peacekeepers dragged Julian out of the class, screaming, "You can't do this to me. I'm a Capitol citizen, not one of your District tributes."

But they did. Julian never returned to school.

Caesar kept his reservations to himself, after that.

* * *

It wasn't his first job after his schooling, but it was close. Special Correspondent for the Hunger Games was an incredible opportunity, and Caesar knew it well. When the offer arrived, he was thrilled.

As soon as he started work, though, his feelings grew mixed. He saw the way the other interviewers treated the tributes, as if they weren't even human. Oh, they'd praise the costumes and the hairstyles, even their agility and skill with weapons. But they might as well have been talking about jabberjays or trackerjackers, beautiful creatures engineered to serve a single purpose. This wasn't great journalism. It was sloppy, self-serving tripe that glorified the Games without making sense of them in any way, and it didn't even scratch the surface of the supposed subjects.

Caesar knew he could do better. If he couldn’t bring down the Games, he could at least help the Tributes.

The Gamemakers sent him to District Seven to interview the family of one of the tributes, a boy who worked in a lumber mill and had some skill with an axe.

"How does it feel to watch your son on the giant screen?" Caesar asked with a fake smile, following the Gamemakers' script.

"We're very proud of Michael," his mother repeated dully.

Caesar skimmed through the rest of the questions he'd been provided. They were cheap and formulaic, the same material that was provided for every tribute in every district.

"You should be proud of him, he's certainly caught our attention in the Capitol," Caesar said encouragingly. "How did he learn to use that axe so well?"

His mother winced at the reminder, and Caesar knew that this interview would be interrupted with a clip of Michael burying his axe in someone's skull. 

To Caesar's surprise, the tribute's father spoke up. He was a tall quiet man with charcoal-colored hair, and he'd let his wife do the talking until this point. "Working in the mill makes 'im strong," the man said, "but he learned that aim from workin' with me. Boy and I built this house together," he gestured at the modest home a few yards away. The walls were covered with smoothly layered boards and decorated with wooden trim in intricate swirls and curliques. 

"It's a lovely home," Caesar murmured encouragingly, even though the place looked drafty and old-fashioned compared to his own ultra-modern apartment. 

The tribute's father snorted knowingly. "House was built in just two weeks, because of Michael's axe. When he swings that axe, it goes right where he wants to put it. Like a part of his arm, he's got such great control." He raised his chin and glared at Caesar, as if waiting to hear that his son was a long shot, that he'd be dead within three days. 

"Strength, control, and perfect aim," Caesar confirmed, smiling directly into the camera lens now. "We've seen these abilities from Michael Harwood in the early stage of the Games. And now we know where he developed the lifesaving skills that make him a force to be reckoned with."

At the end of the interview, Michael would still be trapped in an arena hundreds of miles away, fighting for his life. But somehow his parents stood a little bit taller after it was over, reassured that they'd taught their son the skills he needed to fight for his life.

* * *

"So tell me," Caesar said, ignoring the powerful beam of the stage lights and leaning toward the young man who shared the stage. "What makes you special?"

It had only been a couple of years before his interviews out in the Districts attracted the Gamemaker's attention. He got real insights out of the tributes' families, their neighbors and teachers and sweethearts. He made them seem human, gave them strengths and weaknesses that were invisible onscreen. While his useless colleagues belittled the districts and openly predicted that their children would die soon, Caesar gave the districts and the Capitol someone to cheer for. 

He made them care about the Games again. And that made Caesar stand out from every other correspondent. When the old interview host retired suddenly, the Gamemakers turned to him to revive the dull interview segments. It was the job of a lifetime, and he'd earned it at just twenty-two years old.

"If I told you, Caesar," the young man replied, flashing a devilish smile at camera four, "I'd ruin the element of surprise." He was little more than a boy, really, with hair and skin dark as though the coal dust never really washed out.

The audience roared with approval. Caesar mugged for the camera, pouting. "You can tell me," he said, pressing one hand to the young man's arm. Despite all his bravado, he was shaking in his fabulously-tailored clothes. "I can keep a secret."

"Keep your eyes on me," the boy boasted, "and I'll give you a good show."

"I won't count you out," Caesar said, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. A flash of surprised gratitude flickered across the boy's face and was gone again in a moment. "I bet you're just full of surprises, Haymitch Abernathy."

* * *

Haymitch was the first Victor that Caesar interviewed, first as a cocky tribute and then as a horrified and shell-shocked Victor. He wasn't supposed to have favorites, of course, but in secret he'd been pulling for the little blonde from Twelve. Maysilee had done well, but Caesar should have known better. She was too small, too kind to win the Games. Still, he was pleased when her ally Haymitch was the one left to sit with him afterward.

He always had a proprietary feeling toward Haymitch, and watched his Victor career carefully. His heart thrilled to see the handsome boy waving from Capitol balconies and smiling at adoring crowds, and his heart broke a little when that boy's family was killed in a tragic mine accident so soon after the Games were over. It broke a little more to see what that heartbreak had done to poor Haymitch, crushed with the sorrow of it all and driven to addiction.

Haymitch wasn't the only one, of course. Caesar loved all his Victors, the courageous ones and the tricksters, the lucky ones and even the vicious. They were the fortunate ones who went through the Games and emerged transformed, to become glittering stars in the Capitol night. 

Every Victor had a place in his heart, but some of them held more appeal than others. More than a dozen Victors had come and gone, and here was another dark-haired boy, strong and smart and filled with a winner's confidence. Caesar watch him from a distance, moving through the Capitol crowds with equal parts grace and disdain.

"Gloss is beautiful, isn't he?" a silky voice asked in Caesar's ear, and he startled. When he spun around, Seneca Crane was standing there with knowing eyes, just an inch too close.

"Too pretty for the likes of me," Caesar said with a sad smile. He could feel every nip and tuck, every layer of anti-wrinkle cream and anti-blemish powder that caked his skin.

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure." Seneca winked, and his mouth twisted into a grimace that he probably thought was a smile. "I could arrange something, if you're interested."

Of course he was interested. Still, a cold, logical part of his brain asked _Why would Gloss ever agree to a date with you?_

Before he could answer, Seneca clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll take care of it," he said, and slithered off into the crowd.

The knock echoed through his penthouse only three days later. Caesar checked on the wine chilling on ice, glanced at the elaborate dinner on the table, then rushed to answer the door. 

Gloss was slouched against the doorframe, his broad shoulders hunched and hands stuffed deep into his pockets. "Hi there," he said when the door opened. There was something odd about his voice, a slight slurring to the words that hadn't been there during any of their interviews.

"Hello," Caesar answered with a showtime-ready smile. He held the door open and waved Gloss inside, then watched him enter with a critical eye.

There was a slight wobble in his walk as Gloss shifted his body weight deliberately from one foot to the other. He made his way across the room and slumped onto a white leather settee that Caesar's decorator had declared 'the height of fashion' only two months before. Gloss propped himself up with one arm and fluttered his eyelashes at Caesar, but his eyes were dim and glazed behind the seductive expression. "What's your pleasure, C?" he asked. The slurring was even more pronounced this time.

Caesar frowned. "I thought you might want some wine, but I can see you've already had plenty." He didn't bother to conceal the irritation in his words.

"Trying to get me drunk? Don't bother." The loopy smile fell away from Gloss's face, replaced by something more tired and angry. "You paid for this." He gestured to his body with one hand, then reached for the elaborate broach at his collar and began undoing it.

Caesar talked for a living, but words failed him then. _You paid for this._

The shirt was entirely open, displaying Gloss's sculpted and oiled chest by the time that Caesar found his voice. "Put that back on," he said. "If you need money, I can help--"

Gloss laughed at this, a bitter sound that had little resemblance to the brittle, polite giggles of Capitol society. "You think I see a penny of this?" he asked. "Snow gets the money, and he pulls the strings. I just do what I'm told."

"Maybe you should do it a little more quietly," Caesar hissed, remembering the way Julian Entwhistle's screams had echoed in the silent room as guards dragged him away. 

Without a word, Gloss stood up and unfastened his pants, letting them drop to the floor. He spread his arms in a mocking invitation. His body was chiseled and bronzed, each muscle clearly visible against the crisp white linen of his open shirt. He was beautiful, except for the twisted and angry expression on his face.

Caesar felt a surge of arousal warring with bile in his throat, and swallowed them both back. He picked up a decorative throw blanket, hand-knitted by the finest artisans, and flung it at Gloss's perfect physique. "Sleep it off," he said. "I can't afford you."

The next morning, Gloss was gone and so was the throw blanket. Caesar stumbled into the dining room, where the food was still arranged, now cold and congealed. He yanked the bottle of wine out of its bucket of lukewarm water and took a long swig. The alcoholic sting made his eyes water but did little to erase the horrified feeling in his gut, so he tipped it up again and poured more down his throat.

When half the wine was gone, he abandoned the bottle on the table and stumbled to the hidden closet in the living room. Frantic now, he pulled out box after box of scrapbooks, research notes, interview tapes. Flipping them open, he studied the contents as if they would provide some other explanation. 

In the pictures, Cashmere's body was all sultry curves, the finest Capitol fashions barely noticeable beside her stunning beauty. But her eyes were dark, the red lips twisted into a bitter expression. 

Caesar felt sick. He turned more pages.

Enobaria bared her teeth at a society event, her dress barely a few strings to preserve her modesty. She was quite popular with a certain crowd, Caesar knew. He wished he hadn't left the wine behind.

He knew what he'd see, but still he kept flipping through the books. Dead eyes, drug-addled expressions, beaming Capitolites hanging on Victors. 

At the end of the book was the name of every single tribute he'd ever interviewed, names recorded in careful letters by year and district. One name from each list was marked with a star.

Caesar had known, of course, that he could never save every tribute. But he'd consoled himself with the thought that one child survived the Games each year. 

As he stared at the columns of names, he pictured Gloss's beautiful body and his glazed eyes. Slowly, a horrified understanding dawned in Caesar's mind: even the Victors were casualties of the Games. 

Perhaps the Victors were the greatest casualties of all.

* * *

The next year, when he watches the Reapings, studies the children who will be his interview subjects, it's with a new awareness. He knows he won't be able to bring down the Games alone -- he's only Snow's puppet, just like the Victors. But his interviews can do something that no one else can: make the uncaring Capitol see the tributes as real people. 

One day, the right tribute will come along to grab the Capitol's attention and win their cold hearts. Caesar will be there, microphone in hand, asking all the right questions. He'll make them see, make them fall in love. And if the Capitol cares enough, they'll have something to lose. When the Capitol falls in love, the Games will hurt them, too.

Hurting, they'll look for answers. They'll look, as the Capitol always does, to their televisions. 

With the right tribute, he can show the Capitol who the real enemy is. That's what Caesar can do. He can show the Capitol who's pulling the strings: the puppet master Coriolanus Snow.


End file.
